


Searching (For Something Somebody Stole)

by Pandelion



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandelion/pseuds/Pandelion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is a dream,” Clint says slowly, eying the man seated on his couch.</p>
<p>“Yes,” the man says. “This is a dream. Just like the last one and the one before that and the one before that and on and on.” He waves a hand, as if that’s not very important. “Sit down; I’ve got a lot to say, not much time to say it and I will not kiss it better if you fall on your ass in the middle of it.”</p>
<p>Still a bit wary, Clint perches on the edge of an armchair.</p>
<p>“ To start, my name is Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Searching (For Something Somebody Stole)

“You’re on assignment,” Phil says, after they’ve sat in silence for a while.

“Like that’s ever mattered,” Clint says. He adds, “Sir.”

Phil blinks. “You should wake up, now. You’re probably needed.”

Clint snorts. “They always need me.”

~*~

Clint wakes to the warm drizzle of rain that’s the same as when he slipped into sleep and the familiar grumble of Sitwell in his ear. He’s wedged into the crenellation of an old temple, wet and cramped and just enough room for what he’s doing.

“--and if the assets would actually _tell_ me when they go out of contact, I’d be able to run these missions much more smooth—“

“Hawkeye reporting in,” Clint mutters and Sitwell’s grumbling gets louder.

“Hawkeye! What happened, you go on vacation? This is going in your report, just so you know,” Sitwell threatens and Clint smiles into the collar of his jacket. It’s a familiar threat, one that doesn’t hold much substance.

“Just resting my eyes, sir,” Clint drawls. “Your dulcet tones were just so soothing.”

“Well, with any luck, my dulcet tones didn’t soothe you right off the roof,” Sitwell says drily. “Target is prepping to move. You’ll have visual to the south in ten.”

Clint reaches for his bow and flicks his fingers over the arrows at his disposal, a mental timer clicking down, each second marked. “And?”

“And if you get a shot, you have a go. Try not to explode anything, though, we’re out of 27-6B forms.”

“I’ll keep your paperwork woes in mind, sir,” Clint says, tugging at the string to stretch both it and his muscles. The timer is clicking past seven minutes and Clint wriggles into a slightly better position for sightlines, mindful of the draw space and the ends of the bow.

The timer is clicking past three minutes and Clint just breathes, in and out, deep and even. Everything falls away, the rough stone at his back, the warm water dripping down his neck, the faint hum of static in his ear.

Later, when he’s collected his arrow and reported in and they’re halfway back to the helicarrier, Clint remembers the nap he’d taken while waiting.  He dreamt, he knows, but all that’s left in his memory is a sense of unease. He wonders, briefly, what he’d been dreaming of, then dismisses it entirely.

~*~

“This is a dream,” Clint says slowly, eying the man seated on his couch.

“Yes,” the man says. “This is a dream. Just like the last one and the one before that and the one before that and on and on.” He waves a hand, as if that’s not very important. “Sit down; I’ve got a lot to say, not much time to say it and I will not kiss it better if you fall on your ass in the middle of it.”

Still a bit wary, Clint perches on the edge of an armchair.

“To start, my name is Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD.”

~*~

There’s not much call for the Avengers, after that first incident. Apparently, the evil that does come out of the woodwork is mundane enough that SHIELD can take care of it on its own. Alien invasions and demigod tricksters aren’t an everyday sort of evil.

So, after Clint and Natasha are cleared by SHIELD psychologists and doctors to return to duty (three weeks for Natasha, four months for Clint), they pick up the old style of missions: shipping out at all hours of the night with Sitwell grumbling and groaning as he herds them to their destination, nags them through the mission itself, pesters them into debrief or Medical as the occasion calls.

It’s a familiar role and it’s reassuring, after Loki and the Chitauri; there’s still a world with bad men that a bullet to the head or an arrow to the heart can take care of and the fate of the world is not hanging in the balance.

There’s something grounding in the pull and release of his bow, in the hard recoil of a rifle, and Clint feels steadier than he has since Fury called him down from his nest in New Mexico.

That steadiness is shot to shit when he’s yanked out of a mission somewhere south of the border and sent on a military jet back to New York to deal with some scientist who got a little too involved in his experiments. There are giant goo monsters and a guy hovering above the construction zone of Grand Central Station and it’s everything and nothing like the Chitauri.

The five of them (Thor hasn’t been able to get back to Earth) and SHIELD throw themselves into being New York’s first line of defense and Clint does his best to think of nothing but sending arrow after arrow at the tiny, solid cores of the goo monsters. Sitwell and Captain America shout orders in his ear and he holds onto that, that small difference.

He’s not sure when Sitwell became something integral to a successful mission, but fighting off an alien invasion thinking the agent dead had not been an experience Clint wants to repeat.

When it’s over, he looks at Natasha, at Stark and Rogers and Banner, and thinks, yeah. He could get used to this.

~*~

“Three years ago, the mission in Costa Rica,” Phil says. “You went AWOL to get some food and managed to get lost and involved in a gang war within twenty minutes. The target was eliminated, but the report neglects to mention that you had an iguana on your shoulder when you fired.”

Clint squints at him. “Not even Natasha knows about that,” he says. Phil smiles, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“There are a lot of things I know that Natasha doesn’t.”

For a long moment, Clint just looks at him. “Okay, fine. If you’re not just a figment of my overactive imagination, how the hell did this happen?”

~*~

Living in the Stark Tower is…interesting. On the one hand, there are literally miles of air ducts and crawlspaces that Clint spends hours learning. On the other, there is a computer in the walls and ceilings that watches everything.

Also, Tony. Enough said.

It’s easy, though, living with the rest of his teammates. Everyone is in and out, depending on what’s happening—Tony off to meetings and demonstrations, Bruce and Steve on impromptu road trips, Natasha and Clint on missions, Thor back and forth on the newly repaired Bifrost—but Clint can go days without speaking to anyone except JARVIS or find someone in every room, whatever he feels like.

There are fights and arguments, sure. They’re five highly-skilled people with eccentric personalities that vary dramatically; it’d be more surprising if they all got along swimmingly from the start. But after the second time someone gets punched through the wall, they learn to leave Bruce’s tea alone and everyone learns to ask JARVIS before looking for Tony, just in case. Things happen, but after five months, they’re starting to learn how to fix what they break.

Clint finds he’s willing to put up with a lot in exchange for just the bed—Tony spares no expense in the personal luxuries—let alone the kitchen and the entertainment system in the penthouse level.

The only thing that’s odd is the empty floor below the Avengers’ six levels. Tony offered it to Sitwell, but the agent had been vehement in his reply. Something about how he values his sanity. Still, the level is fully furnished and kept clean by the staff. Clint wanders through it, once, a few weeks after moving in himself.

It’s odd, but considering how well Tony had done in decorating each of the other levels to match the inhabitant’s preferences, Clint can’t really see Sitwell liking the muted burgundy and grey color scheme.

~*~

“—something about making it easier by getting me out of the way,” Phil says and Clint frowns, but not at Phil’s words.

“You’re fading,” he says.

Phil glances down at himself and sighs. “You’re waking up.”

“What?” Clint says.

“This is a dream, Clint. You have to wake up sometime.”

“Will I see you again?”

Phil hesitates. “Yes,” he says finally. “But you won't remember.”

The furniture they’ve been sitting on starts to fade, as well. Clint grabs the armrest of his chair, as if holding on will make the dream last longer. “How many—“

“I’ve lost count,” Phil says. He looks sad.

“Phil—“

~*~

Clint’s on a mission in Oklahoma, of all places, when he sees the card in a store window. He’s inside and headed for the display before he makes a conscious decision. Once there, though, he looks at the card for a long moment before picking it up.

One corner is a bit dog-eared, but other than that, it’s in remarkable condition. Clint pays for it and slips it into his pocket before continuing on. He’s got a vague idea of showing it to Steve for kicks and giggles.

Three missions later, he finds it in his duffel and loses ten minutes just looking at it, thumb absently smoothing out the corner in vain.

After that, he takes to carrying it with him everywhere he goes, in a pocket or his duffel or, once, in his quiver. The smoothness is grounding and smoothing out the bent corner becomes a sort of ritual before he sets up for a shot.

He never does show it to Steve.

~*~

“A magic spell?” Clint asks. Phil shrugs and smiles, like he knows just how ridiculous it sounds.

“Probably more like some sort of technology that we don’t understand just yet, but essentially, yes. There was a device.”

Clint listens to Phil describe the device, the woman that had wielded it. He listens and thinks about how he never remembers these dreams.

“I miss you,” he blurts and Phil stops mid-sentence to look at him. Flushing, he picks at the armrest. “I mean, I think I do. There are…spaces.”

Phil looks curious and interested when Clint glances at him. Clint shrugs.

“There’s a level of the Tower done in burgundy and grey,” he says. “And I’ve got a—“ He flushes more. “I’ve got a Captain America trading card for some reason. Dunno why I bought it, but—“

“Captain America was my childhood hero,” Phil says softly, smiling. “I had the entire set of cards. Near mint condition. I had hoped to get them signed.”

Clint stares at him for a long moment. “We need to fix this,” he says.

“Yes, we do.”

~*~

There’s another three world-saving missions that need the Avengers before the end of the year. Two of them involve robots and one involves a trans-dimensional portal. Clint gets good at figuring out what to aim for on robots and the creatures that come through the portal are more interesting than scary.

Clint’s still voting for calling the winged lizard-things dragons, no matter what Bruce says.

Every time, Sitwell is a steady stream of grumbled orders and Clint revels in the familiar novelty of being on a team that can actually keep up. It’s thrilling, being able to leap off of a building and know that Tony or Thor will catch him. For the first time in his life, Clint thinks he’s finally found a place where he actually belongs.

The only thing missing is a personal life to go with his exciting work life, but every time he thinks about maybe finding someone, going on a few dates or something, he finds the idea doesn’t hold much shine. Instead, he ends up watching a movie with his teammates or teaching himself how to cook something more than MREs.

The lack of sex never really bothers him and he becomes rather proficient at baking cookies, even if he consistently makes more than he needs to for six people, even taking into account Thor and Steve’s appetites.

He finds himself thinking about the burgundy and grey floor more often and the card in his pocket starts to lose its shine with how often he’s rubbing at it.

~*~

“Why me?” Clint asks.

Phil looks at him, eyes steady, and says, “Because you meant the most.”

The rest of the dream is spent in silence, as Clint thinks about that.

~*~

It’s almost a year to the day since Loki and the Chitauri when they find the alien ship.

Buried under a lot of growth, it takes some effort o unearth it and get it back to the labs. The ship itself is interesting, of course, but there are also a number of smaller devices on it that the labs are practically salivating over.

Clint doesn’t think much of it beyond being irritated at having been assigned to oversee the extraction process. At least, he doesn’t until someone comes out with something that looks vaguely familiar.

He stops the scientist to get a closer look. It’s small, a bit bigger than two fists (or one of Thor’s, Clint thinks), and shaped like one of those traditional flying saucers—a disc that bulges at the center, then tapers off towards the edges. It’s gold and black, with a white circle in the middle of the top and there are two buttons along one side. Looking at it doesn’t reveal why it looks so familiar or why Clint is feeling a bit chilled, even under the summer sun, so he waves the scientist on and tries to put the device out of his mind.

Two days after they get everything back to the labs, though, Clint finds himself tracking the device down. The preliminary report suggests that it might be a matter and/or temporal diffraction device, whatever that means. It looks somehow threatening, sitting inert on a stainless steel shelf.

~*~

“I found it,” Clint realizes. Phil raises an eyebrow. “I found the device. The one that erased you.”

Phil’s eyes light up. “You did?”

“Little flying saucer thing, black and gold with buttons? Yeah, it’s in the labs, right now,” Clint tells him and Phil takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a simple device,” he says evenly. The hope and excitement is still sparking in his eyes, though. “Meant to do just the one thing. One button erases something—“

“And the other puts it back,” Clint finishes. He leans forward, intent. “Which button, Phil?”

~*~

The next time Clint goes to look at the device, the report’s been expanded.

_Preliminary: The device seems to emit radiation along a similar wavelength to the readings done on the trans-dimensional portal readings from the two incidents to date. Present theory is that it is a matter/temporal diffraction device._

_Secondary: Radiation has been confirmed at wavelengths exactly -3.2 Hrz from the trans-dimensional portal energy readings. Further testing has revealed a biometric device that seems able to record and retain a single bio-signature. Still uncertain as to purpose of buttons._

Most of it doesn’t mean a thing to Clint, but he gets that it does something similar to a trans-dimensional portal. As for the buttons, though… He considers the device, something niggling at the back of his mind, something he can’t quite put his finger on.

There’s a click when he pushes the right button and it sounds loud in the hushed lab. For a moment, nothing seems to happen.

Then—

~*~

“There is something I need to tell you,” Fury says, after they come back from getting schwarma. He tosses a stack of cards onto the table and Tony and Steve flinch at the spread of red, white, and blue. Thor, Natasha and Bruce don’t really react, but Clint carefully pulls one of the cards over, thumbing gently at a pristine corner, the only one on this card not stained red.

“Sir,” Steve starts, expression pinched. “You’ve already—“

“These are not genuine Captain America trading cards,” Fury says over him. “They’re reproductions. And the blood on them came from a refrigerator in Medical.”

The card in Clint’s hand crumples, but he doesn’t really notice. Tony is shouting something, Bruce and Thor look confused, Steve is stricken and Natasha looks as blank as Clint’s ever seen her.

“You had better be saying what I think you’re saying,” Clint says softly. Fury looks at him, ignoring Tony’s rant, and sighs.

“What I’m saying,” Fury says loudly and Tony’s mouth snaps shut. “What I’m saying,” the director repeats, softer, “is that there’s an agent in a private room down in Medical that is going to be cleared for visitors in about five minutes.”

~*~

They all clump at the door, but Clint and Natasha are the ones pushed through first, the rest of the Avengers peering through the open doorway. For once, they’re all quiet; even Tony seems to understand that this isn’t the time for cracking jokes.

There are a lot of machines, each of them humming or beeping, and the room is painted a muted burgundy. What Clint’s focused on, though, is the man in the bed with bandages wrapped around his chest.

Dark eyes blink back at him and there’s the small quirk that indicates a smile. “So, we won?” Phil asks.

Clint huffs and steps forward to the bedside, fingers trailing just above the pale green blanket. “Yeah, sir. We won.”

“Good.” Phil’s eyes drift shut for a moment, then open again. “Glad you’re not still compromised,” he says, but Clint hears something entirely different and he can’t help the smile or the warmth blooming in his chest.

He drops into the chair next to the bed and wraps his fingers around Phil’s. Behind him, he can hear the rest of the Avengers finally entering the room and in his peripherals he sees them circle the bed. “Glad you’re not dead,” he returns.

Phil smiles again and squeezes Clint’s fingers and Clint knows he heard the same thing.

Tony starts talking, then, but Clint doesn’t care; for the first time since Loki showed up, everything’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Billy Joel's "River of Dreams"
> 
> "And I've been searching for something  
> Taken out of my soul  
> Something I would never lose  
> Something somebody stole"


End file.
